


placentophagy

by relationshipcrimes



Series: entomology [6]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, canon-typical references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 06:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17699666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes
Summary: As the Grimm Troupe approaches Dirtmouth, Grimm prepares to let his child go.





	placentophagy

On the way to Dirtmouth, Grimm shuts himself in his private tent and molds, from the old carapace of the Grimm before him, the charm that will weld Grimm’s child to its new parent. He crafts a mask from an unlucky Grimmkin to hold his young son together. He paints his child’s face for hours with a focus near unbreakable. As Dirtmouth draws ever nearer, he switches to the needle and thread to sew in the arteries, the patchwork, the heart, the carnival veins of older and newer Grimms, patching his own child to some other old corpse of his as the Grimmchild itself snoozes gently on the workbench. It need not be a perfect vessel. It need only contain the Grimmchild until the Grimmchild grows its own limbs, wings, veins, and troupe.

It is only with the charm ready to bear the weight of his son that Grimm snips the Grimmchild free of his own soul, a soft _snick_ of dream-essence, a gasp of the mind. The Grimmchild doesn't even stir.

Grimm is not a particularly sentimental parent. He finds sentimental parents to be as dangerous, if not more so, as the negligent ones; they are both cases of parents putting themselves before their child. Still, in this hidden space within a hidden troupe, Grimm smooths down the fluttered beginnings of the Grimmchild’s wings. It’s not the same. The umbilical cord has already been cut.

The Grimmchild squirms. When its eyes open, the stare is wide and blank. It’ll be at least another year before the Grimmchild can begin to form memories; for now, the world passes through its head, not processed without intelligence, but nevertheless passing through long-term memory like water through a sieve.

“Almost time for your debut,” says Grimm quietly. “Are you excited, little one?”

It makes a soft sound of nonsense.  It’s still too young to think. “Indeed,” says Grimm. “I’m sure your new parent will find you as thrilling a conversationalist as I do.”

The Grimmchild squirms on its back. Its wingstubs flutter, smack wetly along the tabletop, as it flips onto its stomach and stares up at Grimm.

“You won’t even remember this,” says Grimm, trying to sound amused rather than fond, or at least fond rather than melancholy. “You won’t even remember me.”

The Grimmchild makes another nonsense noise.

“I would I say I forgive you your lapse in memory, but there's nothing for me to forgive. You’ve done marvelously, in fact. Look at you! Healthy, breathing, alive. I should ask nothing more of you.”

The Grimmchild tilts its head.

Grimm leans forward, cradles his child’s face in his claws, tilts the uncomprehending face up towards him. “I have only one request. If you ever do bear the weight of remembering me,” he says, “do not regret killing me.”

The Grimmchild blinks. Then it sneezes. Despite himself, Grimm smiles, mouth pressed flat to his sharp teeth. The Grimmchild gives him a toothless attempt at a grin in return, two empty mirror images of happiness reflecting one another, each making the other true.


End file.
